


Quid pro quo

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Spring, Torture, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Male cockroaches aren't timid. They don't run and hide from the smallest of sounds nor can a fleeting shadow scare them away; they're used to fighting, to chasing one another. They're territorial, they're competitive, they battle to the day they die. Female cockroaches are wiser. They run. That was why the males were sought out and trapped first. They were simply easier to catch.</p><p>With the flames licking much too close for comfort, Gadreel thought about this and for a fleeting moment wished he'd been born a female cockroach. Instead, he was that other thing: the one that was easy to catch. Just the smallest difference - a mere stroke too early in creation - and now he was nothing but an ass wearing a costume. As such, it didn't come as much of a surprise that he'd ended up here.</p><p>"Remember me?"</p><p>How could he not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid pro quo

**Author's Note:**

> **[Network](http://gadreelnet.tumblr.com) prompt:** spring.
> 
> I failed the happy part again. Miserably, even. UA where the tracking spell worked, I'm not going for the whole divination thing but let's not pretend that the promo clip for _Meta Fiction_ didn't fully influence everything about this fic.

* * *

 

You take an ass, and you dress it in a pair of jeans, a shirt and a hoodie. What do you get?

An ass.

The animal won't change no matter what you paint it with. No amount of twisting and turning will make it a different creature. The bar television had been on one night, and a balding man had sat with his legs crossed in a chair, fingertips tapping against one another.  
Male cockroaches, the man had said, aren't timid. They don't run and hide from the smallest of sounds nor can a fleeting shadow scare them away; they're used to fighting, to chasing one another. They're territorial, they're competitive, they battle to the day they die. Female cockroaches are wiser. They run. That was why the man sought out and trapped the males first. They were simply easier to catch.

With the flames licking much too close for comfort, Gadreel thought about this and for a fleeting moment wished he'd been born a female cockroach. Instead, he was that other thing: the one that was easy to catch. Just the smallest difference - a mere stroke too early in creation - and now he was nothing but an ass wearing a costume. As such, it didn't come as much of a surprise that he'd ended up here.

"Remember me?"

How could he not.

Between then and now, there was more than a talk show filling up what had for the longest time been a simple picture. Had it gotten brighter, Gadreel wasn't sure; his torture had changed form, admittably relapsing too often back to the good old ways of being strapped down and beaten up but at least in these hands he was less a victim than he'd been in the hands of Thaddeus. These were no masters of the art, barely artists at all; they knew nothing about inflicting true suffering, and while the fear and pain were both real, he'd truly lived through worse things. But there was a larger picture here - he was no longer a prisoner in the literal sense. The question remained if he still was one in the figurative, and he hadn't yet found an answer that would have satisfied him fully.  
He'd seen much and he'd experienced more, but at the end of the day, he still couldn't say if he'd rather have stayed in his cell for an eternity to come.  
  
Most sane beings would pick the devil they know over the one they don't.

 

* * *

 

The winter had died a slow death. Ice broke late, snow was still piling up where it was least expected well after it was supposed to be gone, and some days started with the roads closed leading to an often repeated embarrassing situation where angels were hindered by the same restrictions and inconveniences as all the true men and women around them. It became something of an accepted fact in Gadreel's mind: that this was how the world was. In such a short time on the grand scale that was his lifespan to date, he forgot that in this world, seasons changed. Summer was a distant shade of gold, a fraction of a second that had passed him by in an ugly dream, and the winter that followed was the reality, the permanent state of the environment. Its eventual and inevitable temporarity came as a shock to him, even as he consciously realised he should have known to expect it.  
The world did not care about him or his misconceptions of its nature. It broke the ice. It melted the snow. The frost's chill ceased, its sharp edge dulled and the wind that had been its great war-steed turned into a playful young colt bucking to the sun's heat that rode it like the spirit of life itself. Grass turned greener; snowstorms transformed into drizzling rain. Buds snuck into the branches of the dead-looking trees bringing a hidden glow to them, a natural halo that was hard to pin down but that could be seen surrounding everything.

More often than not, there was nothing to do; either the time wasn't right or he was still waiting for orders. On an afternoon when the former was true Gadreel found himself walking along a dock, eyes scanning the gently rocking boats and the steel-grey water that lapped at their bottoms, the angel realised that spring had to be the most miraculous thing he'd experienced. It wasn't a quick revelation: in fact it had been building slowly inside him for a while, under all the storms that were his doubts and thoughts and loyalties all clashing together in one grand war that seemed to never reach a conclusion, only minor victories and temporary ceasefires. Seagulls lingered in the sky, their never-ceasing screams piercing to the ear like the cries of homesick souls, and their shadows travelled the sea's calm waves, sliding as soundlessly as the birds were flying. The boats, the dock, the island further away all seemed to belong there, and the gulls were the soul of the scenery; the green upon the trees on the island and partially veiling the decorative bushes sitting by the edge of the cement behind Gadreel's back was the flesh that brought the place to life. The only thing that absolutely did not belong there was Gadreel himself, but turning and leaving was hard.  
  
He slipped behind the wheel of his black car and was greeted as a stranger, but after closing his eyes he could almost recall the scent of the leather seats even in this dusty replica of the vehicle he remembered, and the voices and the smiles and the occasional laughter that he associated with it, and slowly he relaxed into the seat and could finally turn the key. The engine purred and the air conditioning stirred to life, blowing more dusty air into the interior. From the open window proper oxygen flowed in, bringing with it the scent of the world resurrected into the dull lifelessness that still reigned despite the huffing of the car's vents.  
Nothing else about that day was special; not to Gadreel anyway. When he sat in the chair watching the silver drills that would inevitably end up inside his brain, he learned it had also been the day they'd performed the tracking spell: the day, that was, when he'd reached the end of his leash.

"It took us three days to find you. Were you even trying?"

Gadreel smiled, eyes turned towards the dusty floor. He didn't reply. They'd never get a word out of him this way.

 

* * *

 

Sam leaned to the counter and let out a weary sigh. His coffee tasted of burnt blood, his mouth tasted of blood and the air he breathed was heavy with the smell of copper. Dean pulled off his shirt, seeming disgusted by the stains in it before discarding it on the creaky chair that had been mainly used by Kevin in order for him to dig things out of the highest cupboards.  
The thought felt sour, and suddenly, despite having both a sore throat and burning muscles from the hours spent in the dungeon, Sam wanted to spill the coffee down the drain and go right back in for a second round.

Bitterly he discarded the thought like Dean had discarded his shirt and instead sipped the thin liquid iron from the mug hanging by his finger.  
The shorter man cast a look at him and Sam couldn't decide what had prompted it - he'd probably let out one of his telling huffs or a particularly strained sigh that Dean had caught up on.  
Afterwards, nothing happened. It was better that way. Any communication between them that wasn't reserved for requests for a specific tool of torture would inevitably lead to a fight that neither could spare the energy for. In passing, the younger's eyes mapped the Mark on the other's arm, but he didn't linger upon it.

Seconds ticked by.

"I'm going to bed," Dean finally announced.

Sam nodded, eyes turned to the dusty corner of the room. From the edge of his field of vision he saw Dean grabbing the half-emptied whiskey from the counter before leaving. His steps faded into more seconds, the mug that Sam held grew lighter as they went and finally it was empty: he laid it next to the sink, stretched, turned his head until the stiffness in his neck was released with a quiet popping sound, and after that he just stood there indecisively, drawn in one direction by reason and into the other by emotion.

He measured his energy levels and his self-control: he was doing much better than Dean at his best, so the latter did not necessarily worry him. There was still something in him that he could put to use.  
Not that he expected results, but for the peace of mind...

 

* * *

 

It was next to impossible to remember there was a human being in there somewhere. Sam couldn't look at the vessel without feeling a surge of white-hot anger charging into his veins, and the reasonable part of him regretted returning the very moment he'd closed the door behind him and pulled aside the hidden door to the dungeon. It would be so easy to just grab the angel blade - better yet, grab the small blades and drive them through any and all arteries he could reach to before the inevitable would come to pass - and just give in to the high. He knew better; he'd learned about revenge.  
So instead of charging for a pointless slaughter, he settled by the doorway and watched, trying to first and foremost calm down enough to prepare a course of action, as clearly the previous had not worked. What they'd gotten was a scarce share of defensive insults and an odd belittling instruction on how to make a method more effective, implying they had no understanding whatsoever of what they were doing, and perhaps in Sam's case it was true. Dean's precision was terrifying, however; as unwilling as he was to admit it, Sam was certain that fact had played a role in his choice to come here now. As much anger as he was packing in towards his brother, he still didn't want to see him turn into what every moment down here with Gadreel was bringing him closer to becoming. There was something terrifyingly familiar about what he did and how he did it that Sam couldn't trace to any particular source. All in all, perhaps they were all safer and better off with this unsupervised, ill-advised visit of his.

The room hummed quietly, but other than that, nothing but the angel's heavy irregular breathing broke the silence. He hadn't looked at Sam as far as Sam knew; the yellow light was dim enough to make saying for certain next to impossible. The blood on him had already dried, although around the deep wounds where the drills had penetrated his skull the layers still glittered partially wet. As the still moment stretched, Sam noticed he was occasionally shivering, and the longer they stayed in this stalemate where neither was making a move to any direction, the harder it became for him to not feel pity.  
In the end, he gave up. The first step he took that set the tension in the room free, sending it thick through the space like rogue electricity, was the hardest to take. After that, the rest came easier. He stopped in front of the angel, just barely outside the small trap, and reached for the bottle of water they'd used in washing the equipment earlier. It still had half remaining, and he wet a cloth with it. His hands trembled and his heart raced - tears of frustration and anger and fear had gathered to his eyes but none fell out. He kept his breathing steady as he crossed the trap.

"You try anything and I'll make sure you'll never leave this room again," he heard himself say.  
That was the only thing they'd gotten right. Nothing scared Gadreel more than the threat of imprisonment. Death would be kind to him and he didn't bat an eye to the possibility of it; at best, it seemed to sadden him, but sadness like that couldn't be turned into an effective weapon. Torture was a routine to him, it didn't scare him either; he took it with an honed facade of bravery and pride and if Sam hadn't known it before, he knew now that no amount of carving would ever get him to speak unless they'd eventually by accident hit a nerve with their unrefined attempts at poking into his operating system.  
Even now, the words got some kind of a reaction out of Gadreel. He raised his head ever so slightly, green eyes quickly mapping Sam's appearance, taking note of what he was holding and then falling back towards the ground. The water soaking the cloth in the younger's hand was slowly turning his fingertips wrinkly, but he couldn't bring himself to move; his mind worked hard to find some end or another to attempt to solve the mess in front of him. Truth was, he barely knew what he was looking for anymore.

In the end, he found no words to speak and instead raised his hand near mechanically, hesitated for a brief moment and then bit the figurative bullet and pressed the cloth against the angel's forehead. Immediately at contact, the other turned still and tense, every muscle prepared for fight or flight like any animal's, and it didn't change when the cloth moved with light pressure over the wounds and on the stained skin washing away the thick solid trails of blood.  
After the third time Sam had had to pour more water on the cloth he finally noticed some of the tension slowly lifting from the older's pose. His shoulders sunk inch by inch until they were almost relaxed and his breathing turned lighter and more regular. While the younger was squeezing crimson water out of the cloth, he finally shifted - it was nothing but his bare feet changing position on the floor, but a movement regardless and a sign of the dynamic between them transforming.  
  
Sam pretended he hadn't noticed and instead poured what little water remained in the bottle onto the cloth before offering it to the angel, palm up and fingers relaxed instead of fisted around it. He waited and water dripped between them into a small puddle before finally the other reached to take the cloth from him. Sam stepped out of the circle and watched Gadreel press the cloth against the side of his head, body now leaning to that side instead of staying strictly in the middle of the chair. He let out a quiet, weary sigh and wondered if this was the moment when the best choice for him would be to walk out the door. He'd never been a torturer. He'd never become one.  
  
"I take it that you're not going to talk?" he asked.  
  
The angel raised his eyes to watch him carefully for a while. Then, slowly and minimalistically, he shook his head. Sam simply nodded before turning. Closing the doors behind him was a relief.

 

* * *

 

Being alone was a hundred time worse than the torture had been at its worst. It was incapacitating, choking; the dusty, cold underground smell of the room did Gadreel no favours either. The worst was the lack of sounds altogether - he remembered his cell, the one memory he'd avoided above all others, and in the blackness of the dungeon he no longer knew if he had ever gotten out in the first place. He could barely feel his vessel, could do nothing to heal the damage done to it, and at times he forgot he had one in the first place. The only light provided to him was the faint glow of his grace through the wounds, the shine so dim it might have been left unnoticed by someone whose whole world wasn't limited to that room and the impenetrable darkness of it.

Through all that, he was still gripping the wet, bloodied cloth in his hand, as if it could bring him some sense of safety or connection to what was outside of this room, outside his circle. His toes traced the space he had for himself, knowing it was too little for him to even straighten his long legs, and his inhales and exhales took the measure of time alongside with the vessel's heart that was still too unrealiable for the purpose on its own. And even then, even despite all he did to keep himself grounded where he was, trying to hold as firm a grip upon the flow of time as an angel whose powers were tied by an oppressive sigil could, he still feared he wasn't there after all, that the time that he was counting with the muscles that were foreign to him was just an illusion: that years outside passed with each breath he took, running and running towards an unknown destination while he remained trapped here, unaware and forgotten, until the next torture would redeem him from his own company.

Even when he remained lucid and felt for the moment at least relatively certain the past months had indeed happened outside his shattered mind, he still feared he'd never see the spring turn to summer. It wasn't the fear of death: it was the fear of loss, as crushing as it could come. Somehow, his sole existence concentrated upon the renewal of life outside and the passing of time that took it from him. He realised distantly he was associating that loss with the loss of hope for himself: if he'd be locked through the awakening of the world, clearly he would never reach a figurative rebirth himself. He'd never be more than a prisoner, never walk free among those that no longer hated him for his mistakes and the wrong choices he'd made.  
The chance had been slipping for a long time, if it ever had existed to begin with, but here, now, he could feel it wither and die like a living flower between his palms that he had no means of reviving. He'd gotten his second chance. The only thing fully illuminated in the pitch blackness of his new prison was that he'd wasted it.

 

* * *

 

It could have been a hundred years when Gadreel picked up the steps from the corridor. The very first sound sent his heart into a frantic race against his ribs, like a prisoner in its own right trying to break free of the bars that no longer sheltered but contained it instead, and his head jerked up to allow him a direct line of sight towards the doors. His pose was like that of a fox, eyes fixated upon a perceived threat or the shape of prey, trying to make sense of which it would be and in following, which course of action would be the one to fall back to.  
When the doors opened and let in a faint yellow glow alongside with a familiar weight in the footsteps he relaxed, relatively more comfortable in knowing what he was up against now. Sam Winchester was either the worst or the best of his options: he was the one who was less likely to grab the blade and start carving away for the sake of it, but seeing him triggered a whole different, completely self-inflicted pain on its own. He was like a walking, talking reminder of all that Gadreel regretted from the past few months and suddenly, although initially he'd feared the option more, he realised he'd rather had the older brother and his blades.  
At the very least Dean Winchester shared his guilt.

"Morning," Sam's voice carried across the shelves that still remained a near solid wall between Gadreel and the room that hid the entrance to the dungeon.  
Scent of freshly brewed coffee and soon after that of a sandwich carried through the slit.

 _Was it really_ , Gadreel felt like asking, but he didn't know if it would be wise to say anything at all. He didn't. Instead, he kept quiet and his eyes keen upon the doors to his cell. With the lights in the other room now turned on he could make out most of the dull details of the prison, but there wasn't much worth seeing: the cement floor, the uneven walls and the chains upon them as well as the darkened ceiling were all very familiar to him already. He'd had plenty of time to stare at them and learn every detail by heart with the drills stuck in his head the previous day.  
Outside of his box, the bottom of a heavy mug hit the surface of the table that the brothers had carried out of the dungeon to the storeroom's side soon after locking Gadreel in the circle that trapped him much more efficiently than the walls could ever do.

"Still alive in there?" the younger brother asked after a few minutes had passed.  
By the sounds of it he was standing up and moving to the hidden door - soon enough the wall parted and let in enough light that even the vessel's eyes could now see in it.

Gadreel leaned back in the chair, examining Sam as Sam was examining him. The other let out a small chuckle and nodded as if in response to himself.  
  
"Better than last I saw you."

He was possibly referring to the way the angel was now reacting to what happened around him, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Unlike the shoddy attempts at torture the previous day, the night had done real damage to the prisoner: Gadreel remained proud only of the fact he could hide the weakness so well that it appeared to be entirely absent from him, even at the face of the agony it was still now causing him behind that mask. His mind was a mess, a storm of flashbacks and sensory hallucinations relating to memories he'd blocked out. He barely flinched at the flash of a blade that was not physically there, but the burn of it in his grace was real enough. His mangled wings twitched to reassure him that they were not bound, not about to be torn again.

"It's funny," Sam said as he turned around and returned to his breakfast mere two feet away from where he'd stood for a moment just watching, "Out of the two of you, I think I can deal with you better."  
He sat down and took the sandwich, but he didn't bite into, just examined it with his mind elsewhere.  
"Nobody expects me to forgive you. Nobody expects me to even stand looking at you. Nobody would do more than maybe lift a finger if I chose to kill you now, and that's not because they didn't think I was within my rights but because I'd be wasting a source of information."

The words were more true than Sam perhaps even knew; indeed, no one would care much. Not the angels, not God, perhaps not even Abner would have had an objection to spare for his cause now. Gadreel himself certainly did not, and the thought left behind a familiar ache; it had been a long time since he'd last felt like he had others to back him up. That wasn't something angels were built to cope with, and even after all this time the knowledge still burned like a fresh wound.  
Sam's eyes flickered towards him again and they shared a strained silence, not of the kind where two minds were struggling to find common footing but rather one where both remained within themselves, merely using the other as a platform for their own thoughts.

With a long sigh, Sam finally turned back to his coffee. He slid down in his chair and turned to stare at the wall in front of him instead, or perhaps to idly scan the boxes on the shelves in front of it.  
  
"Everyone expects a lot from me with Dean. Hell, _I_ expect a lot from me with Dean. It's like I don't have a right to feel this way at all. Like I should just let it slip because he's my brother."  
  
Gadreel heard the stiff muscles in the back of his neck snap into movement when he tilted his head. Sam remained as still as he'd been before continuing.  
  
"You know," he said after a moment, turning to look at Gadreel now, "it's crazy. I don't even know you, you don't know me, I wouldn't expect you to give a crap about me to begin with. But Dean? What Dean did he did for himself, and I'm supposed to forgive him like that's okay. Like he can just - it's like he owns me and nobody seems to think that there might be something wrong with that."

The expression on the man when he drank his coffee seemed like he was downing pure burning acid.

"Why are you telling me this?" the angel asked, words escaping him uncertainly despite the growing awareness of the hidden ulterior motives behind this unexpected heart to heart from the man he'd violated as profoundly as any being could.

Sam let out a tired laughter.  
"I don't know," he said with a shrug, eyes upon the shelves again.  
"Maybe it just doesn't matter."

Gadreel watched him adjust on the chair and Sam's comfort prompted a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction from him, bringing his attention to how entirely uncomfortable he was in his own seat.

"I guess I'm giving you a full tactical advantage here. That I'm knowingly letting the serpent in."  
The quick, almost unnoticeable glance towards Gadreel's direction showed the wording's purposefulness. The sigh the older let out was entirely unintended.  
"Thing is," Sam continued as if there hadn't been a weapon hidden in his previous line at all, "I don't think I care."

The chair into which Gadreel was for all intents and purposes tied to creaked when he leaned forwards.  
"It's not entirely true," he said, insides boiling with the aftertaste of the words the man had spoken.

"What now?" Sam asked, pretending this hadn't been what he'd aimed at.

"That I don't know you. I do know you, Sam."  
Gadreel felt the tip of his tongue skip across the dry and still copper-tasting skin of his lips and he drew breath, shivering, in a failed attempt to shut up before he'd make the mistake he was already set on doing.  
"I know everything about you: what you think of your brother, how much you've sacrificed, what you want and what you fear. I know what you do when you're alone. I know you better than anyone."

The younger's mouth turned into a thin white line and for a moment, he didn't even breathe. Then, slowly and stiffly, he turned to cast such a hateful look at the older that it felt like it was physically burning his skin at contact. Still, Gadreel answered it with apparent boredom, as if this wasn't getting to him at all.  
"Yeah?" Sam let out, his voice thick and strained, "Well, don't you think maybe it's time you give me some info in turn for what you took from me?"

It had been a good plan, that much Gadreel had to hand to the man.  
He shifted again and tasted the bitterness on his tongue.  
"What do you want to know?" he asked.

The faintest of smiles crossed Sam's lips before he downed the rest of his coffee.

"Everything. Quid pro quo."

 

* * *

 

Sam slammed the notebook in front of Dean and sat down with a heavy sigh.  
"Well, that was easier than I expected," he let out with a hint of an accomplished, mysterious smile.

Dean wasn't awake; his eyes rose slowly up to the open page and dragged rather than ran along the notes upon it. Nothing could have pleased Sam more - he took in each and every change upon the older's features like a treat and a pat on the back, and when Dean finally grabbed the notebook with both hands and charged through it like it was made of gold, he could have laughed out loud.

"How the hell did you..." the man breathed out now clearly fully awake as he double-checked the first page and then ran his fingers through the other two, "I mean, did he survive?"

Sam shrugged.  
"Pretty sure."

"What did you _do_ ?" Dean asked with an expression of awe, and for the first time in a long while, Sam didn't feel like they were completely strangers to one another.  
  
He shrugged, the victorious grin on him still as wide as ever.  
"Played the good cop? He _wanted_ to talk. It was just about how to get him to start."

Dean's lips parted and he let out a slow exhale. Then he dropped the notebook on the table, leaned back and chuckled.  
"Well, good for you, Sammy."

Sam's grin toned to a grimace.

"So, uh, what now?"

The younger shrugged again.  
"Honestly, I haven't thought about that. I guess we should put this to use."

Dean nodded.  
"Speaking of good cops," he muttered then, fingertip rubbing at the corner of the notebook, "Cas is on his way."

"Well, that's good news."

"Yeah. But what I meant by _what now_ wasn't about Metatron."

"I know," Sam replied wearily.

"You know? And you - you haven't thought about that?"  
Dean's expression was surprised and he examined the younger with growing curiosity.

Sam tipped his head and huffed with mild frustration in the tone.  
"No, I haven't," he replied with a glance at his brother, "Don't you think we have more pressing concerns right now?"

"Uh, yeah - but if you wanna waste him, that can be arranged pretty quickly. I'm just saying."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."  
Sam licked his chapped lips and immediately after felt his teeth nipping at the inner sides.  
"I think," he said then, deciding it was purposeless to keep the fight waiting, "it's not me you're concerned about. You want to waste him, but you're using me as the decoy. If he's gone, you think you'll feel better about what you did to me, and I assure you, you won't. So no, I haven't thought about it. I need to figure out what I want before I'm pulling any triggers that I don't absolutely have to."

"I don't get you, Sam."

"Yeah. Well, I didn't expect you to."

"God, do you really want to do this now?"

Sam grimaced. There was a small pause after which he shook his head in defeat.  
"No. I really don't. So - Cas."

Dean nodded.  
"Yeah, Cas. At least we have good news for him for once."

Sam nodded in turn; good news hadn't come in abundance as of late, so having the team all gathered up with the gold vein he'd tapped into to work from was indeed a great place to begin from. A weak smile returned on his face.  
"So, I guess this is happening, then."

"Yay."  
Dean's sarcastic tone brought back a sense of normalcy between them.  
Sam chuckled.

"Yeah. Yay."  
He stood up again and grimaced, feeling throughoutly dirty in the exact manner that he'd felt for a good long while now, only further highlighted by the past couple hours he'd spent in much too close proximity to the source of his discomfort.  
"I'm taking a shower. Meet you in the study after?"

"Alright."

 

* * *

 

Sam had broken the old sigil - the new one spanned a larger area allowing Gadreel to stretch his legs. He hadn't stopped pacing through and through and round and round since, fingertips dragging along the wall at the point where the red line in the floor touched it for a couple inches, allowing him the pleasure of feeling the rough stone that surrounded him from all sides but one.  
It felt so good, even with his hands still cuffed he could at least move now - he could stand up, which made him that much less vulnerable than being tied to a chair.

The first time he stopped was to the sound of the door opening. He turned, back against the wall of the room and pulse of the vessel's drumming against his throat in a steady strong rhythm; this was neither Sam nor Dean coming in. Neither of them had a halo. Neither of them carried the aura of an angel.  
  
At first he thought Castiel would not enter - he seemed preoccupied with the storeroom's contents, as if looking for something. Then, however, the doors pushed fully back to the sides, their corners barely touching the sigil's end. At least Castiel couldn't come closer; Gadreel wasn't certain would it have been more hilarious than terrifying if he had chosen to regardless.  
The thought left his mind soon enough, alongside with a large portion of the fear he'd felt at the other's presence before seeing him in full. He'd never seen an angel look worse than the one in front of him did. Somehow even graceless and dead he'd been better off than this.  
Instinctively the older took a step forwards, head tilting in cautious curiosity, and to his surprise Castiel took one away from him just as instinctively.

He wasn't wearing his own grace: his aura was like a patchwork monstrosity, and it was wearing him thin. Slowly, Gadreel stood up straight, undoing the slight nervous slouch from his pose.  
"Did you come to end me, or did you just want to take a look at the - how did you put it? The angel that destroyed the universe."

Castiel's expression did not change for a good moment, but then he seemed to lose some internal fight with himself and let his shoulders down and his gaze fall to the floor.  
"It's not my place," he said defeatedly, "to decide what happens to you."

Gadreel wished he could have placed his palms against the cold wall behind him, but the cuffs kept them chained over his crotch instead. He watched Castiel's hesitation and tried to make sense of it, hoping at the same time that he'd go and that he'd stay.

"But I am curious," the younger finally said, taking another long look at the convict in front of him. He stepped inside the room, walking along the edge of the trap towards the back wall onto which Gadreel was leaning all the way until he got much too close and the older stepped towards the middle to keep some distance between them.

"Undoubtedly."  
The sneer in the older's voice was a defensive method, one he'd learned well. As long as he held onto his pride, he could incite anger in others and anger was one thing he knew how to take. It was a gateway out of words and directly to physical pain, and pain was what he handled the best. It scared him the least.  
Castiel squinted, side-stepping back to stand on a direct line to the trapped angel.

"Sam Winchester," he spoke then in a voice that spoke of unwillingness to get to the matter he'd come for, "called in a favour. I told him I'd do what I can, and I have to keep my promise."

"Your promise," Gadreel repeated, brows raising ever so slightly and a nervous chuckle escaping to top the words, "What did Sam want you to do for him, then?"

The expression on Castiel's features was, for a fleeting moment, nearly disgusted. Then it returned to the weary shade of defeat and he looked at the wall, possibly finding it more pleasant to look at.  
"He asked me to heal you."

Now the prisoner felt his brows knitting together, and he examined the angel behind the line disbelievingly, unable to say anything for a good while. Silence stayed still and dulled by the earth surrounding the underground room, and it was only broken by the shifts in Castiel's pose and the quiet sigh he let out as he waited, eyes sometimes getting caught in contact with the older's.

"It's your choice. I am no Rit Zien, but I'm more in power than you are."

"You'd have to break the trap."

"And I would," Castiel replied with another sigh, "Where would you run? You are unarmed and chained."

A hint of a smile flashed across Gadreel's lips. Indeed, he was going nowhere. Even if none of the former had stood true, he still wouldn't have had anywhere better to head for.  
Nervously, doubtfully, he took a step forwards.  
"I can't accept the offer. But I'd be grateful if you did break the trap."

"I can't do that, even if I wanted to."

Gadreel nodded.  
"Then I will stay here."  
Finally, after hours of avoiding just that, he sat back down on the chair in the middle of the circle only to further emphasis that his decision was final.  
"Tell him that I'm thankful for the offer regardless."

Castiel nodded. He seemed relieved.  
"I will let him know."

 

* * *

 

The large garage echoed with Dean's grunts and the clinging of tools as he worked on the Impala, and Sam wasn't surprised to find him there. It wasn't unusual for the man to transform his stress and fear into paranoia about his car, and there was always something to improve in the old ride anyway, so when he hadn't been in the kitchen, his own room nor in the study reading up on Abaddon, Sam hadn't even bothered looking elsewhere. Next to the man on the concrete floor stood a bottle of whiskey: one more note to add to the list of things that Sam wasn't surprised about.

"Hey, Dean." 

The older straightened up and turned around, still remaining on his knees next to the front wheel of the car.  
"Hey."  
He wiped his hands to an oily cloth and swiped sweat off of his forehead, leaving behind a black mark.  
"What's up? If you wanna make a grocery run, Impala's off limits but I could use some beer, we're out." 

Sam shook his head, stopping next to his brother and the car he probably would have married if it had been legal in at least one single state. A lot had changed in him, but clearly the love for his car had not.  
"It's not about the car," Sam said, deciding he'd rather have this conversation over before it turned unpleasant, "I'm going to let him go." 

Dean brushed his face again, two fingers dragging from between his brows down the bridge of his nose and across his cheek quickly as if swatting away a loose tickling hair. Then he blinked, looking even with his unshaven face like a little kid playing mechanic; the green of his eyes seemed enhanced by the bright lights, and the wetness in them for the moment did not seem like it was due to alcohol. He sniffed and blinked again.  
"You what?" he finally managed, "Gadreel?" 

Sam nodded.  
"I just - I don't care," he said with a shrug, "I don't care enough to kill him. Metatron will do it for me, Dean, he told us _everything_." 

"He could be lying for all we know, wouldn't be the first time," Dean noted. 

"And if that's the case, then we're dead anyway. Killing him doesn't help me, Dean, and it won't help you either." 

"Well," the older scoffed and stood up, his old Zeppelin shirt as oily as his face was, "it sure as hell won't help us when we need to ice him later. You really think he's not going to stab us in the face the moment we turn up exactly where he wanted us?" 

"You think he'll be there? Seriously," Sam grimaced, "You heard what Cas said. Metatron's basically guaranteed to hate Gadreel _at least_ as much. He isn't going to make him a commander in Heaven, for God's sake - from how Gadreel spoke, he isn't all too happy about Metatron either. But honestly? As I said, I just don't _care_."

"Let me do it, then."  
Dean stared him dead in the eye and his expression was disbelieving, shocked even.  
"I'll kill him so that you don't have to. If you don't care then it doesn't matter, right?" 

"Dean -" 

"Seriously, Sam, you can't let an enemy just walk out like that!"

The younger let out a huff and turned his gaze away, taking in a deep breath before looking at Dean again.  
"Dean, look, it's not about Gadreel." 

"What? I swear to God if you bring up what you think I feel one more time -"

"No," Sam cut him off with a shrug, "it's not really about you either." 

"Then what the fuck is it about?"

"It's about - I'm not falling to that level." 

"He killed Kevin, what the fuck else do you want for proof that the guy's gotta die?"  
Dean's voice trembled of anger and hurt - the very mention of Kevin was something they both avoided to the last possible moment, and even now it made Sam shiver and, just as Dean had wanted, reconsider.  
He stayed quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the old cars and suddenly wondering if they were still in a working condition: of course Dean would have by now tested them, but they hadn't been talking. Not about cars, not about anything else either. Not since Kevin.  
Finally, he turned again and looked at Dean.

"Thing is," he started slowly and quietly, uncertainly.  
His eyes got lost again, stared right past Dean and then quickly entirely away from him for a moment as his mind looked for the words he needed.  
"I was there - I know the whole story. It's not all clear, it's not - it's not as organized as I'd like it to be, but, Dean, I was there. That whole time, even while he was in control, what he saw I saw, what he heard I heard, what he thought... I thought. And I - I can't say I _get_ it, but I kinda get it." 

Sam didn't want to talk about it.  
He hadn't wanted to even think about it.  
There was no way for someone who hadn't seen it to ever understand, much less Dean who felt like it was his fault and his fault only that Kevin was gone, that he'd let Gadreel in in the first place. Perhaps it was his fault. It didn't matter. Sam had the memories, the whole puzzle in his head, and the picture was grim no matter from whose point of view he looked at it through. 

"You can't be serious," Dean stuttered, "You've _got_ to be joking."

"No, I'm serious. And I want to kill him for what he did to me, for what he did to Kevin, I do - I just don't think it's the right thing to do. I'm not going to argue about that with you. If you really want to go and kill him, then go and kill him. I won't stop you, I really won't. I'm just saying that if you do, that's on you."

"Is there a single reason I wouldn't want that on me, Sam?" 

"Yeah," Sam spat, "Yeah. The reason Kevin's dead isn't Gadreel, it's _Metatron_. The only reason Gadreel was the blade that took him out was because he was desperate and he was right where Metatron needed him to be; you were smoking him out, I was smoking him out, Metatron smelled blood and offered him what he needed in return for spilling it, and he had no other choice but to take it. That doesn't mean what he did was right and I'm not defending him, but I'm not going to be the one to sentence him to die for it either. I just won't; that's not who I am. I want him out of the door and I want it to happen today, and I hope that I never have to see him again, I really do, but I've made my choice and I'll let him live."

For a good half a minute, Dean did nothing but stare. Then, as if accepting that Sam really wasn't going to say anything more, he spat on the ground and wiped his lips with the back of his oily hand, only this time leaving behind no stains.  
"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely. 

"Tell me what I said isn't right, Dean. Tell me he had another way and I'll drive him through twice right away, believe me when I say I want nothing more."

During the next thirty seconds, Sam wasn't sure if he was hearing his own pulse twice or if he could actually hear Dean's through his chest as well. Then, with a sharp turn and an equally sharp breath, the older spun around and fell back on his knees on the floor, grabbing a wrench and throwing it back on the floor almost immediately in favour of something else.

"Get out, Sam. And if he's still there when I'm done with this, I _will_ kill him. And if he's not, and if in the end he's there with Metatron when push comes to shove, know that that's on _you_."

 

* * *

 

The silence and monophobia of the night past seemed to have given birth to a day when the door wouldn't stay shut at all. It couldn't have been more than an hour or two after Castiel had left that Sam walked in - the dungeon's hidden door was still wide open, so Gadreel didn't have to take guesses about the visitor when he first entered the storeroom.

He stayed warily at the back wall, taking guesses from few clues whether or not this would be the last visitation he'd ever have, but the man walked past the array of weapons and to the trap and crossed it without hesitation. Sam had an odd sense of determination about him as he stood in front of the doorway, eyes locked with the angel, and finally dragged the tip of his shoe across the painted line until it was broken and with it disappeared the suffocating aura that had kept Gadreel from using his powers. Not that he still could put most of them to any use due to the binding enchanted cuffs around his wrists as intact as ever, but inside his grace surged to immediately heal the superficial wounds from the vessel, and although he felt dizzy at the drain, the following feeling of the deeper injuries beginning to heal was a welcome relief to the constant ache they caused him.  
Like had happened before, he instinctively took a step back when Sam took one towards him, but for the next he had nowhere to go anymore - his back hit the wall again and he simply watched the man approach him, and neither said anything before he'd offered his hands between them and Sam had taken a firm hold of his left wrist to open the locks of the cuffs. 

There was a moment of electrified silence between them now that the last spell keeping the angel chained had been broken. The tension only gradually fell apart while he freed his wrists from the weight of the chains and passed them to Sam; the younger took them and hung them by the chair's back.

"Come."  
As perhaps a the surprise to them both, Sam turned his back to the older and walked to the doors. 

"Can I ask you where we're going?"  
Gadreel was following, but his steps were uneasy - there were few places he could imagine being taken to that wouldn't be the end of him. Still, even if he was on his way to his execution, he just as well could not imagine a place worse than the one he was leaving behind. 

He watched Sam pick up the angel blade left on the tray with rest of the tools they'd used, and how his fingers wrapped firmly but hesitantly around the handle. He'd stopped now, and so did Gadreel only feet from where he stood, uncertain but oddly unafraid, almost relieved.  
Sam's eyes turned to him, and the yellow light of the room made him appear paler than he really was; he looked almost as sickly as when Gadreel had first seen him, but this wasn't because of any injury or illness but simply a result of some inner conflict the angel couldn't grasp.  
While he was fighting that battle, Gadreel couldn't help wondering where it was leading them: if Sam had come here to kill him, then surely he could have done it where it was safe for him. The circle and the chains would have prevented any attempt at fighting back, breaking him out of them and _then_ going for the kill just feet from where he'd been imprisoned all sounded highly illogical. So he waited, still as calm as ever, eyes answering the pained look of Sam's in a questioning manner; he wouldn't raise a hand against him, although he couldn't say for sure if he would defend himself in case the other would decide to attack. There wasn't much to defend and on one hand, the promise of a quick death didn't strike him as a particularly bad option, but on the other... he didn't want to die. Even after all this time, he still wanted to live, if for nothing else then for the chance of there still being a chance for him. Some centuries ago Abner had disbelievingly pointed out what a hopeless optimist he was, and it seemed now that this was a trait that he would never fully shed.

Finally, Sam's shoulders relaxed and he seemed to come to a conclusion that at least for the time being would be the final answer to whatever question had prompted the moment. Then he did the last thing Gadreel had expected him to do - he reached out the hand with which he was holding the blade and turned it, offering it handle first to the angel.  
"Take it. It's the one you had when we found you." 

Uncertainly, Gadreel brought his hand to the blade and steadied it in his firm grip, careful not to bend or slide it a single inch to any direction while Sam's hand was still around the edges. An angel's blade never went dull; it was sharper than a razor, and any movement would cause the triblade to break skin. When Sam's fingers lifted from around it, he was still unharmed.  
"Go," he said with a thick, strained voice.  
  
The angel tilted his head; his whole body remained tense and he still couldn't decide what was going on. 

"You know the way out, don't you? I don't have to show you to the door." 

"You're freeing me," Gadreel voiced as confused as ever, "Why would you do that?" 

Sam shook his head.  
"I'm out of my mind."  
He hesitated, and so did the angel; somehow, Gadreel felt as if he was now rooted to the floor with some new spell, something that was even more incapacitating than the one he'd been released from.  
"Quid pro quo, okay? I don't want to owe you. I don't want to owe you _anything_. You saved my life, now I'm saving yours. But if I ever see you again -"

The relief that seemed to have been held back by the enormous solid wall of doubt suddenly flooded free inside the older, and he lowered the blade from between them to his side.  
"Thank you."  
  
The first step was the hardest - he took it to his side, eyes lingering upon Sam as if expecting for him to pull out another blade at the very last moment, but Sam did nothing but look back with an expression that told the older clearly how much he wished he'd done exactly that.  
The steps that followed grew quicker as Gadreel crossed the familiar corridors, the halls and the stairs: he nearly ran up towards the door and once he reached it, once he was _out_ , the ache in his chest was like a physical grip crushing his ribs but it felt too good to worry about.

Spring air flooded against his face, the scents of early flowers budding in the ditches and along the edges of the fields, and the smell of wet mud and wet concrete mixed to an earthy, heavy scent that toned the evening. Sunset was already colouring the horizon to a shade of strong copper - birds were making the most of the insects that the new season had uncovered and charged, chirping and chattering, through the open sky.

"So," a voice called out at him from ahead, and when he turned, he saw Dean Winchester sitting on the bank above the ramp leading to the bunker's door, "not only did that ass really free you, he also armed you. Real smooth, Sam."

The man slid down back on his feet, dust clouding at his feet at the impact. His expression was unreadable as he approached Gadreel, and the older grew increasingly aware of the tactical disadvantage he suffered in his dead end at the lower ground. His fingers wound tighter around the blade and the spring's beauty disappeared from around him as he prepared to fight for exit; nothing about Dean spoke of diplomatic intentions.  
The shorter stopped at the slope, more than an arm's length from Gadreel but close enough to remain a constant threat, and they both knew he was making the most of the advantage he had there. Even though the ramp was wide, where he now stood Dean was blocking all the ways out, and the bunker's door had already closed forming a very solid wall behind the angel's back.   
  
Dean watched him for a while with an expression of pure agony, jaw clenched and a stillness in his trained body that spoke of readiness to attack, but he wasn't making the move, not yet, and the longer he simply stood there watching, the more anxious Gadreel grew. 

"He's using you, you know that, right?" the younger finally spoke, the tension in his body breaking if only ever so slightly. "Metatron's playing you just like he played Cas."  
The look in Dean's eyes grew less hateful and more distraught and he swallowed, taking a step back. Gadreel felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the warmth of the evening.  
"So you're just - going to run right back into that trap. It's like you want to get caught. If you're not trapped in Heaven, you do your damn best to be trapped somewhere else. Why'd you do it, man? What did we ever do to you to deserve that? Or did you just hate us so much that you'd rather work with that snake than deal with us for a moment longer?" 

"Dean -" 

"Don't you Dean me, you sick son of a bitch. I didn't need that, Zeke, I didn't need Kevin's blood on me. I didn't need you to play me like a goddamn flute the whole winter, and I sure as hell didn't need -" 

"I'm sorry."

Wind passed them, crawling inside their clothes and into their hair and sliding across their faces smoothly like a silk cloth. It made the grass shiver and dance and sparrows followed at its tail, their sharp voices following the somersaults they made in the air as they passed. Watching them and hearing them made Gadreel feel oddly homesick, although he couldn't place that longing to any particular place or time; he just wanted away from here to someplace else, somewhere simpler.  
He sighed and lowered his gaze, fully aware of losing the only chance he had to react in time should the hunter choose to attack.  
"I had no place with you here. I was never welcome, although I wanted to be. Under those circumstances, I made the choices I thought were right." 

"Like killing some poor kid who had no quarrel with you, someone you'd watched the whole year? You knew what he'd been through, and he _trusted_ you!" 

With a certain heaviness pushing him down, Gadreel raised his eyes back to Dean.  
"Nothing I ever did was enough," he said quietly, "I needed a way out." 

"That's how you justify being a backstabbing traitor?" 

The fire behind the younger's eyes was too strong to bear, and with a flash of pain, the angel turned his gaze away again. Then, slowly, he nodded.  
"I thought I had no other choice." 

"Man, _I_ trusted you." 

Gadreel felt his lips bending to a crooked little smile before a sigh broke through and he shook his head.  
"No," he said quietly, "You never trusted me."  
He took a step forwards and to his surprise, Dean stepped aside to let him pass.  
"But what I did is not on you and I'm not pretending otherwise - you never made my choices for me. I understand that. I wish things could have been different, and I'm sorry for everything." 

"You're just sorry because you're the one that got screwed over, Zeke." 

Gadreel let out a quiet, short sigh and stopped again - they now stood on the same level, and from here the angel could see the blade that Dean's fingers were trailing, ready to wrap around it and pull it out at any moment. He watched it for a moment and although he knew that making the wrong decision now would be the end of him, he did not raise his own blade first. Instead, he gathered the courage to look into the hunter's eyes and noticed how much taller he stood to the man, something he'd never really taken notice of before.  
He was still an angel, and this was just a man. 

"But I trusted you," he said quietly then, "and I do trust you still." 

With those words, he turned to leave, back exposed, and Dean did not jump the opportunity. The heavy sound of the bunker's door closing carried all the way up the path that Gadreel was now walking.

 

* * *

 

Metatron raised his head, spun around on the bar stool and cast the most throughoutly annoyed and insulted look into Gadreel's direction the very moment the chiming of the opening door had announced his entrance.

"Do you have any idea how late you are? Did you even do it?" he asked. 

Gadreel walked to him, stopped a few feet in advance and waited for the rest. 

"My lord what a useless creation you are, truly. Do I have to do it myself? Where _were_ you?"

The expression on the scribe grew from annoyed to suspicious and from suspicious right back to pissed off. Gadreel couldn't bother with a reaction to any of it: his blood-stained shirt clearly spoke of nothing in particular to the other angel and he had no intentions to fish for empathy that he knew the other entirely lacked for his case.   
With a weary sigh he settled upon a stool himself, leaving one between himself and Metatron, and took note of the disbelieving breath the other let out. He cast a look behind the counter and breathed in the fading scent of the morning that was still lingering in the fabric of his clothes.

He calculated his options, the variety of answers he could give and realised he was far beyond the point of caring. 

"There were some complications," he finally replied, fingers upon the handle of his blade just running along the smooth unearthly material and feeling the echo of the grace that it was made of inside him, "but I did what you ordered me to do, and I have what you asked for."  
The rest, truly, did not matter. 

Metatron would surely find out when the time would come.


End file.
